


Beauty and the Beast with Landmines

by Aurelia_21



Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Africa, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beauty and the Beast with landmines, Gen, Global Politics, One Shot, Politics, Stockholm Syndrome, UN Peacekeepers, United Nations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:48:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelia_21/pseuds/Aurelia_21
Summary: In this modern AU, Beauty is a mine-clearing specialist in the Nigerian Armed Forces and the Beast is a cruel insurgent warlord. When the US President pushes the UN to take care of the Beast the old fashioned way (by bombing him into oblivion), only Beauty is brave enough to intervene.





	Beauty and the Beast with Landmines

All good stories start with once upon a time, but as this one is still in the papers it must be admitted that the time is very recent, and technically ongoing. You may recall the recent situation in one of those far away countries most Americans can’t place on a map, even though they send hundreds of millions of dollars in aid every year. They even sent some troops, because the 20-year civil war with all its ethnic cleansing was considered such a blight upon humanity that all the civilized nations of the world had to send some troops in. Now the menace is nearly gone—the vast part of the insurgent army killed or carted off to prison, the majority of the killings stopped—and all would be well and over, if it weren’t for the Beast.

The Beast wasn’t always considered inhumane. Once upon a time he was a nice little boy, and then his village got burned down and his family raped and killed in front of him and he was taken off by crazed warlord Abida Abuda to be his personal valet. The Beast grew up into a good little soldier, using the trauma of his past to fuel his rage, and when Abida Abuda gasped out one last video message from below the American rifle raised above his face there was only one man he wanted as his successor. So the Beast inherited about twelve hundred acres of impermeable jungle, a cache of blood money, and half a beleaguered army of fanatics. Hemmed in on every side by UN troops and finding himself on the Top Ten Most Wanted list of every country in the world (even North Korea), the Beast did what any child-soldier-turned-warlord in a similar situation would do: he took an entire village hostage, retreated to a fortified mansion, and rigged the area around it with landmines and assorted improvised explosives. Then he started negotiating.

The UN couldn’t stand to let the hostages die, so the Beast was able to hold out for quite a while on the cans of spam their helicopters dropped each week. After a few months, his situation didn’t seem quite so desperate. The press quickly forgot all about the situation and those in government thought the war might just drag on forever. The new American president didn’t like that.

“What? That’s still happening?” He yelled in dismay during his first day in the Situation Room.

“Yes, sir; the Beast is still the last threat to our ability to declare this another successful American attempt at nation building. I mean, UN attempt.”

“I thought this was resolved ages ago. It hasn’t been in the papers for months.”

And so the President decided to bring it up at the next UN Security Council meeting.

“It’s time we get rid of the Beast,” he bellowed. “So I can properly forget about ever notifying Congress that we had troops in combat there.”

“What do you suggest, Mr. President?”

“I suggest we bomb them into oblivion! Simple, cost-effective.”

Now the UN Security Council was not used to having the President of the United States crash their meetings, so they were a bit in awe of him and inclined to agree. Which was why it was surprising that a little voice piped up in the back.

“But the hostages!”

“Collateral damage!” Barked the President. Then, concern for his historical legacy overtook him. “Who said that?”

One of the security guards at the door stepped forward. “Private Ngozichukwuka Chukwunyelu of the Nigerian Armed Forces, UN Peacekeeping Division, Sir!”

“That is thoroughly unpronounceable,” said the American President, an opinion shared by most of the world, which is why the Press started calling her ‘Beauty’ later. (No one could see much of her face below her blue helmet, but her chin was spectacular). “And what do you recommend we do instead, Private?”

“Let me talk to him,” said Beauty. The hall erupted in laughter, but Beauty stood firm until it ceased and then repeated her request. “I said, let me talk to him. Send me in, and within two weeks I believe I can secure the release of the hostages. If not, at least I will avoid the shame of counting human life so cheap.”

“Very well,” said the American President, who was very much amused. “What say we give her the two weeks? It’s a shame to see such a beautiful young girl throw away her future, but gender equality, eh?”

And so Beauty came to go to the dwelling of the Beast.

There were mines all around, so she had to call ahead and tell him she was coming. He was curious why a young woman would volunteer to come visit him, a ferociously cruel and misogynistic warlord, and he also thought she might make a high value hostage, so he acquiesced. He had his men lower the anti-aircraft guns for a few minutes so Beauty could rappel out of a helicopter onto the roof. (The area around the castle, remember, was thoroughly impassable due to all the landmines.)

“So, have you come to negotiate?” The Beast asked, as soon as the helicopter was far enough away and the anti-aircraft guns were back in position. He had enjoyed finding new and interesting ways to kill the other negotiators.

“Oh, no,” said Beauty. “I’m just here to keep you company until the Americans blow you up.”

“They’re not trying to storm the fortress for the hostages anymore?” The Beast was a little shaken.

Beauty shook her pretty head. “They were going to blow you all up yesterday, but I asked if I could come for a bit first. I’m interested to see your setup here.”

“Be my guest,” said the Beast. “You may have the run of the place, though I don’t recommend wandering into the minefield, for obvious reasons.”

Beauty nodded courteously, and set off to explore the place.

The mansion had once been rather lovely, but currently all the electricity and water had been shut off, so it was not so lovely anymore. It was dirty and smelly and falling down a bit. Beauty found an interesting library full of jihadist recruitment materials (the Beast was no jihadi, but he had once captured an Al-Qaeda lending library), and busied herself reading through the piles of notes the Beast had taken. He had terrible handwriting, but she was mostly just surprised he had found the time to learn how to read and write. She read up on the copious notes he had taken of the tortures he liked to inflict—his handwriting was basic, childish; but the punishments he’d dreamed up were inhumane beyond belief. The silence suddenly struck her—the eerie, dragging, molasses silence. Though the UN estimated the Beast was served by thirty-five remaining fanatical warriors and holding two hundred live hostages, Beauty could hear nothing but the screeching buzz of cicadas. 

Suddenly heavy footsteps approached—Beauty about leapt out of her skin. She turned: it was the Beast. He was clothed, as was his wont, in one of his tattered stolen army uniforms, with a machine gun belt of black market cigarettes about his neck and a shrunken head for a necklace.

“Will you join me for dinner?”

“I’m—I’m sorry?” Beauty had rather expected something more deadly, and the words took a moment to register.

“I want to watch you eat. Will you have dinner with me?”

Beauty nodded, shaken, wondering if the hostages’ tortures had begun with the same words. She allowed herself to be led into the dining room.

The Beast took his seat at the other end of a very long table. Beauty lowered herself into a plastic chair, taking deep breaths to calm the shaking in her knees.

“So, Beast,” she said, trying to sound braver than she felt, “when are you going to kill me?”

“Certainly not before you have your dinner,” and the Beast snapped his fingers. At once a line of mute, starving hostages filed blankly in, presenting her with a lone can of spam. They retreated, staring longingly at her meager supper.

The Beast gestured towards the can of spam in front of her. “Eat up.”

“But—do they eat?” her voice was scarcely above a whisper; her hand waved weakly in the direction of his beleaguered slaves.

“Of course they eat; I haven’t yet been able to wean them off food,” he snapped. “Now eat.”

Beauty was worried he might be trying to poison her, and was relieved that the can appeared not to have been tampered with. She opened it and ate it, carefully, measuring herself, although she was ravenously hungry. The Beast watched her, intensely, not taking any food himself, and when she was done eating he spoke.

“Beauty?” he asked. “I have one request.”

“What is it, Beast?”

“Will you marry me?”

All her pent-up terror and frustration burst out at once in a most unladylike shout of laughter. “Marry you?” She ought to be scared, but the absurdity of the request had sent adrenaline coursing through her. “No, Beast, because then I would be providing aid and succor to a known terrorist, which is contrary to the Geneva Convention.”

“Never mind,” said the Beast. “I will ask you again tomorrow.”

The Beast had had the idea that maybe if he could marry a nice UN Peacekeeper girl, the foreign troops would think he wasn’t an evil warlord anymore and he could escape this dratted mansion and carry out operations somewhere else.

The next day dawned, and the next, and Beauty spent most of her days with the Beast walking back and forth in the ten square feet of the garden that weren’t covered in landmines. Every time she took a breath she feared it would be her last before she joined the sorry ranks of the limbless, mute hostages. But minute after minute he was still letting her breathe, and had yet to lay a finger on her. In fact he seemed to be courting her. It was that knowledge, that she had at least one bargaining chip with which to hold out on him, that gave her the courage to begin some sly negotiations.

“You know,” she said one day, “I really think you ought to get rid of all these landmines. They’re completely useless since the other side has so much air power, and I really think it’s a psychological manifestation of the interior trauma you feel about your past, so losing them might be cathartic. Also, it would be nice to be able to go for a longer walk.”

“It’s impossible to get rid of the landmines, I’m afraid,” said the Beast sadly. “But I agree with you, a longer walk would be nice.” The Beast was terribly out of shape because he hadn’t been able to go for a proper walk in years, and he thought Beauty might be holding out on marrying him because he was in terrible shape.

“Actually, you’re in luck, because before I was a UN security guard I was a member of the Humanitarian Mine Clearing Unit,” said Beauty. “I know all sorts of tricks.”

And so, with the Beast’s permission and a promise to leave a ring of mines around the perimeter, Beauty got to work. First she trained a battalion of honeybees to sniff out dynamite and locate the landmines, as the honeybees were too light to set them off. Then she spent a while throwing the Beast’s hand grenade collection to remotely detonate the landmines. After that she held a controlled burn of the general area to disable any remaining fuses, and then she took a ride in the Beast’s rusty old backhoe to turn up all the dirt around the mansion just in case anything was left. She sent the honeybees out again, and once they reported the ground clear she went to report the good news to the Beast.

“It’s safe for us to go for a walk now,” she said. “But I still won’t marry you.” He had been asking her every night, but she was staying true to her principles.

Now that the landmines were gone, Beauty and the Beast could go for long walks every day. The land was also good for farming now, so the hostages and remaining soldiers started digging a vegetable garden just in case they made it to harvest season. The Beast had taken quite a liking to Beauty, and her no-nonsense philosophical conversations even had him rethinking mass murder as a tactical maneuver. So when the American President called and said it was time for Beauty to get out of there because her two weeks were up, the Beast was terribly sad and also anxious and sick.

“Don’t leave me, Beauty,” he begged. “You’ve shown me a glimpse of a life I could never have imagined, a life of peace. Let’s wait until the vegetables come up, or at least let’s die together. I love you, Beauty.”

“I love you too, Beast,” said Beauty, because the stress had gotten to her and she had Stockholm Syndrome now. “But an order’s an order, and I’ve been ordered to leave. I’ll see you again soon, though, I promise.”

“How?” asked the Beast, hope shining in his eyes for the first time in a long time.

“I’m afraid that’s classified,” said Beauty.

In fact, Beauty had spent her nights making impassioned appeals to the UN Security Council over Skype. With the minefield cleared, she said, there was no longer any need to blow anyone into oblivion. The army could simply storm the mansion, release the hostages, and take the Beast into custody. The Security Council was very appreciative of this logic, because it was going to be awkward in the press if the UN Peacekeepers had to blow someone into oblivion.

So Beauty was hopeful as she waved goodbye to the Beast and his hostages as she flew away in the military helicopter the next morning. That optimism lasted until she was on a teleconference with the American President later in the evening.

“You should be thanking us, Beauty! We got you out.”

“Thank you, Sir!” Said Beauty happily. “But thank you even more for listening to me. I’m so happy we’ve been able to find a peaceful, diplomatic solution to the crisis and won’t have to kill anyone.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t so,” said the American President.

“I’m sorry?” Beauty was stunned and thought she wasn’t hearing him right.

“We ran a cost-benefit analysis and decided it’s cheapest if we still blow them into oblivion.”

Beauty exploded in anger. “Why do you need to save money?! You’re the richest country in the world!”

“Technically on a per capita measure that would be Qatar, and they think we should blow the Beast up too.”

“You’re a worse monster than he is!” And Beauty stomped out of the teleconference. She went to find her boyfriend—what with her perfect chin, Beauty had never been single—who happened to be in the Air Force, and commandeered his helicopter. Then Beauty flew back into the jungle and landed on the edge of the minefield. She stepped out, holding a megaphone.

“Beast!” she cried. “Come out, please, Beast!”

The Beast, who had been trying to cry himself to sleep because he thought he would only ever hear that voice again in his dreams, was on the roof in an instant. “Beauty!”

“I’ve come to help you, Beast.” Her voice was trembling, and in its unnaturally magnified state he could easily hear the emotion. “They’re going to blow you up any minute. You have to come out, Beast. Bring all the hostages. There’s a safe path out of the minefield. It’s the only way.”

And, weighing all his options—being bombed into oblivion versus having a shot at love—the Beast decided to take her advice. He woke up all the hostages and all his remaining soldiers and they crept carefully through the old minefield to meet Beauty on the other side. The Beast hurried to Beauty, but pulled up short when he saw the fear in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Beast,” she said. “But I must do this for your own good.”

A huge spotlight turned on, blinding everyone in sight, and the Peacekeepers hidden in the trees rushed forward to cart the Beast off to prison. He howled with rage—“Beauty!!”

And that’s how the twenty-year war ended.

The Beast got sentenced to life in prison, of course, because he had been racking up an impressive number of charges ever since he was six. Beauty testified against the death penalty in court, and while he had been hoping for a true love kind of ending where they ran off together in freedom, he had to admit he was relieved to only wind up in Swiss prison. Beauty recovered from her Stockholm Syndrome, and she’s currently engaged to her boyfriend in the Air Force. And as for the American president? He took all the credit for the operation and lived happily ever after.


End file.
